[center][h2]Dreams[/h2] [i]Early Spring of the year 315 P.F.[/i][/center] [hr] Language. Batuul had not realized how much division simple linguistics would cause to her people, how much language seemed to be a unifying force. She never had to deal with it causing division to her as most orcs knew how to speak the common tongue, at least in some capacity, but now it seemed that it was completely foreign to them. Her own words were understood in perfect clarity by them, and such was the same that her ears understood every little word uttered by the lesser orcs, such was the nature of black speech and being a scion of Chernobog. Yet for the life of her, she could not understand how to solve the issue, especially when she already understood the two as clear as water. Luckily, Bula and Bolag’s spat had devolved into snarling and grunting, with lots of aggressive body language involved, things Batuul could understand how to solve. After hearing the two try to assert either one as the more dominant over the other, Batuul stepped between them and silently looked between the two of them with a face of anger and rage. The two backed down once more as the matron made her presence known, a simple grunt coming from her as she stabbed her spear into the ground. Batuul brought her arms up, gesturing for either of them to challenge her, wordlessly making them aware that she was not afraid to bring them down if she had to. “I do not care where an orc is from,” Batuul growled, looming over Bolag for a brief moment before turning to Bula and continuing, “And I certainly don’t care about your bickering.” She let out a huff as she looked to the sky, noticing that it had grown darker and the sun was close to setting on the hilly countryside of Calesbail. While Batuul was certainly not truly tired, her divine connection to Chernobog made sure she could go a long while without sleep, she was never able to get good sleep while imprisoned by the White One. Looking back at Bula, she stepped to the side and said, “I want you to learn his southern speech, I don’t want to teach Black Speech to a bunch of pissants right now.” As Batuul turned to walk towards a small tree, Bula stepped forward and said “My matron, this bea-” Batuul let out a roar as she turned on her heel, silencing the lesser matron into submission and shooting a look of impatience to Bolag and the other warlocks. With that issue dealt with, the massive form of the orc sat under the tree and folded her arms across her chest as she looked over the small warband. They were looking back at her, not that she cared. She let out a sigh and leaned her head back against the wood of the tree, and watched the sky slowly turn black and fill with the light of the stars. Never had she thought that she was going to miss the darkness of the night, remembering the blinding white lands that she had been trapped in. It had been brighter than anything that she had seen, it had been so bright that it went through her eyelids whenever she tried to rest. At least now, in the comforts of the mortal plane once more, she would be able to find that little bit of rest. Her eyes grew heavier as she began to relax until eventually the darkness enveloped her, the feeling of sleep finally taking her after all the centuries. At first, there was nothing. Then, the shadow of sleep parted and Batuul found herself in the midst of a vision. She stood at the base of a tremendous mound, mountainous in proportion - a heap of broken and torn human bodies. Women, children, the eldery, fools and kings had all been piled here indiscriminately and visited upon by ruination itself. Their blood ran like mountain streams, forming great rivers that wound into the indiscernible distance, their tails meeting the horizon and staining the whole of the world a crimson pitch. Atop the mound was a pyroclastic plume. Human screams of untold anguish intertwined with howling maelstrom winds. Burning embers, sooty ash, and the scent of brimstone saturated the air like snowfall, fluttering all about Batuul and the heap of charnel. All this destruction and death, it brought joy to her heart as the dream of fulfilling the ambitions of Chernobog filled her every emotion. With her wicked spear in hand and her hands feeling the blood of an untold many upon her, she let out a hearty laugh, her own voice joining the chorus of screams that surrounded her. It was the same feelings she had before she had been imprisoned by the White God, before the humans could muster any defense against her rage and brutality. Even as she reveled in the cacophony of human suffering intermingled with fiery consumption, the pyroclastic winds seemed to shift and swirl. Atop the mound of bodies, the incandescent flume seemed to part - and rising from the peak of the throne of death, guttering forth like shadowed clouds from the mouth of an eruption, came a jagged and ineffably darkened form. It rose and stretched itself up and outwards, arms that were pitch-hued ravines torn in the sky unfurling almost like wings. Great ribbons of dribbling blood-red magma seeped from that monolithic darkness’ bowels and ribs, a dusken and ruddy light boiling over uncounted multitudes of human faces that dissolved and intermingled into a mosaic of misshapen, pain-wracked expression. Silhouetted vapors of their screaming countenances rose like specters, spiraling about the towering immensity that continued to billow forth from the peak of the mountain of death. A great brow rose at the peak of that unequaled abyss in the sky. An inky tree of cruel brambles and crags shot out from it, a crown of stygian veins taking root in the heavens - and as the pale and guttering light of the whirling tapestry of human suffering veiled that dark form, two great eyes, cavernous, immense and agleam with otherworldly balefire, opened. As the light of those malignant spheres was cast downward, the whole of the world beneath Batuul’s feet quaked and trembled. The Matriach shifted her footing as her perch grew unstable moment by moment, thrusting her spear into the mound of bodies to stabilize herself as she watched the dark form. After a moment, Batuul bowed to the dark figure, recognizing it as her dark master who had no doubt come to shame her for being captured by his greatest enemy. She wanted to explain herself, wanted to apologize for the time she had wasted within her prison, wanting nothing more than to keep his favor as his warlord. Yet, words escaped her mind, unable to find any coherent speech that would make up for her failure against his true enemy. Chernobog, the Black God, loomed over the whole of Batuul’s world, wrathful and omnipotent. A crevice tore across his face, a furnace leading straight to a pitiless inferno sending howling winds to careen about the mound - torn and dismembered human limbs pinwheeling across the sky like gnats. His breath was the putrescence of empires, and his voice was the shuddering collapse of bastion walls. His maw unhinged to reveal a thousand blackened teeth and yet no tongue, and of course there were no words that tumbled forth. The Chernobog’s [i]voice[/i] was ever a wordless song; the Black God issued his commandments and his desires through other means: burning agony, leaping flames, and visions in the smoke were only a few of his ways. Dusky fumes and foul vapors spilled from the Chernobog and writhed their way through Batuul’s nostrils, reeking of death -- not the glorious metallic odor of blood, the putrid stench of carrion, or any of the other innumerable scents of battle -- this sort of death smelled of a dusty tomb that had been left dark and untouched for a thousand years. [b]Thump.[/b] A pulse tore through the air and Batuul’s feeble form... [b]Thud! THUMP![/b] The Chernobog’s monstrous heartbeat attuned to a rhythm that boiled the blood and evoked rage, for he was most displeased. Louder and more powerful than any bronze gong or warhorn, the beats shook the whole of the world and throbbed deafeningly inside of the scion’s head as she prostrated before her sire. [b]THUMP![/b] [right][sub][i]TOO[/i][/sub][/right] [b]THUMP![/b] [right][sub][i]LONG![/i][/sub][/right] The pulsing rhythm and the meaning that it carried tore through Batuul, unable to think as her own nerves began to get to her and her heart beat faster and faster. She gulped in fear as her grip tightened around her spear, taking a deep breath to slow her nerves, pushing through the stench of a thousand years of old carrion that almost brought tears to her eyes. Finally, she looked up to the dark god, still prostrating before Chernobog, kneeling amidst broken limbs and twisted corpses as she attempted to calm herself, curdled blood pooling around her hands and knees. “I am sorry, Lord. The White God’s chains were too hard for me to break,” she said in a fear ridden voice. The slow pounding attuned itself to a beat that bespoke of ire. It grew faster, frenzied, stronger. The Black God’s titanic form wavered in the molten heat of an untold million bodies burning at his feet, but the piercing, unblinking intensity of his eyes scythed through the haze to bore unerring into Batuul’s prone figure. There was no respite to be had from his withering glare, and through the drumming heartbeat it was as though he struck his worthless daughter across the face, over and over, mercilessly and relentlessly. Each throb was like the battering blow of a mace, sending a shivering hot scream of pain through her skull. She could hardly stand it, wanting to crumple to the ground and try to concentrate on something other than the waves of pain. Yet, she knew she had to show to her master that she was still strong, able to continue to lead the Fell despite her defeat. Batuul spoke through her pain, her words coming out forcefully as each word was a labor in itself, “I know I have failed, Lord! Allow me to make up for the failure and lead the armies of the Fell against the manlings once more! You know that I have not failed you against your enemy’s worshippers, that is why they had to have their god imprison me personally, Lord!” The rapid heartbeats abruptly ceased -- both those that came from within the Chernobog’s towering bulk, and those within Batuul’s own breast. Her blood that had been stirred and brought to a boil by her sire now was cold sludge in her veins, and all her strength fled from her as the thundering influence of the Black God cracked across her spine. She could [i]sense[/i] the Black God’s answer to her. [right][sub][i]NEVER[/i][/sub][/right] Lacking the strength to stand, Batuul collapsed. [right][sub][i]FAIL[/i][/sub][/right] Her breathing ceased. Her vision blurred, and the world darkened. [right][sub][i]AGAIN![/i][/sub][/right] Struggling to even move, Batuul managed to look up - and bore witness to the immensity of her lord’s arm raised high in the burning sky, wreathed in flames, its talons leaving whirlwinds in their wake as they clove through the air. With all the impending exigency of a collapsing tower, the Black God’s arm fell to smite Batuul from his sight. The matron suddenly sat up from her dream, panting and sweating out of the fear that she had felt from seeing her dark master once more. She held up her hands only to see that they were shaking, another reminder of how small and weak she felt in his imposing presence, knowing she was nothing compared to his power. Batuul looked around, only to see that Bolag and Bula were gone with only the other warlocks and their retinue resting under the night sky. With a huff, she leaned back against the tree she rested under and merely watched her kin rest, no longer feeling the need or desire to rest. Her eyes drifted over to the night sky before figuring that she should do something rather than sitting there idly, Chernobog would disapprove of such action. Batuul rose from her rest, snatching her spear from the ground before she moved some matted hair out of her face. She took in step to try and find her two favorites of the party, Bolag and Bula.